


On Some Sweet Shit

by InstitutionalizeTheInsidious



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Ageism, GGE2017, I will probably rewrite this, I'm gonna hide in a corner now, Ian works at the Fairytail, M/M, Romance, Smut, Terry kicked the bucket, body shame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 11:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13409880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InstitutionalizeTheInsidious/pseuds/InstitutionalizeTheInsidious
Summary: This is my entry for the Gallavich gift exchange. This was written for fuck-me-forgiving-a-shit.Ian Is the owner of the Fairy Tail when he and Mickey meet again.





	On Some Sweet Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuck-me-for-giving-a-shit](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fuck-me-for-giving-a-shit).



> This is my entry for the Gallavich Gift Exchange and it's for fuck-me-for-giving-a-shit on tumblr.  
> The prompt was Ian is working at the Fairy Tail when Ian and Mickey first meet. Okay, this is the part where I tell you I may have changed things up just a wee bit. I hope you like it though.  
> Big round of applause for Gallavich Things. Thank you! Also, I'm sorry that this looks nothing like the summary I sent you.  
> This is my first fanfic and holy fuck! I have gained so much respect and admiration for writers. Writing is fun and rewarding but, it is also really hard; especially, when I got stuck and didn't know what to write next. So yeah, thank you writers for persevering and bringing me the stories that I love cause I honestly don't know how you do it. Do you have super powers? I have been a, predominantly, silent part of the Gallavich fandom for going on three years; I've done my time, cried my oceans, broke some ribs laughing, moved mountains from inspiration and possibly failed a class because I couldn't stop reading. I truly believe that the artwork, fics, blog posts, readers, twitter (twitter tea is amazing), and all other forms of contribution are what keeps this fandom alive. So, you know, keep doing what you do.  
> Shameless, do your worst! ( except, maybe don't. You've done enough.)

Thirty was most commonly associated with “gay death”; in which case, makes Ian feel like an overripe corpse in comparison. It’s almost laughable that he feels this way; especially, when he reckons he’s gotten more ass in his thirties, than he did in his twenties. 

His twenties had been an abundance of drinking, partying, and nameless sex; However, a bipolar diagnosis at Twenty-three evokes feelings of shame, self-loathing and bitterness whenever Ian recalls his twenties. It remains a dark mark on his past; one that he has closed everyone, even himself, off to. 

His thirties, in comparison, had been a masterclass in moderation and self-care—people seemed attracted to the confidence projected, whether it was genuine or not, was neither here nor there. He sees his family on a semi-regular basis because despite the invisible chasm between them, family is family. Things had been working well for him. 

At least, until a one-night stand blasted all of this to shit and Ian couldn’t even remember the kid’s name. They had been lying together on the white sheets, bodies loose and thrumming with vulnerability, post coital, when the boy lifted his head from Ian’s chest, golden curls tumbling down his face, brown eyes meeting Ian’s. He had looked at Ian with awe in his eyes and pressed his lips together in a sly smile.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just—now I get it,” the boy, who Ian has decided to call Goldie Locks, says this while pointing an accusing finger to Ian’s person. Ian must have made a confused face because he goes on to clarify, “I have never been with a man so much older than me.” Goldie locks—the unobservant prick—didn’t notice Ian’s body go stiff as a board. The little prick frowns, poking his bottom lip out, “I never got the memo, so I’ve been missing out this whole time.” 

“I’m not that old,” Ian says, somewhat indignantly, before moving untangle himself from the sheets. Ian had been unprepared for such a back handed insult. He was only thirty-two!

“Are you kidding? You’re ancient.”

It goes without saying, the little bitch was scurrying out of Ian’s door, only half dressed, in the same minute.

His pride was hurt, how could it not be? Who the fuck calls someone ancient? Seasoned? Fine. Experienced? Accurate. Ancient goes hand in hand with archaic, and oh would you look at that, overripe corpse. 

He spent most of his teen years, sidled up next to men twenty odd years older than him; except now, the roles were reversed and that made him shudder. 

A couple minutes after Ian heard the door click closed, he slipped out of the bed; the sheets falling to reveal his nakedness as he padded his way across the carpet. He stood in front of the mirror, pinching and squeezing his face together, checking the elasticity. He pulled the skin tight smoothed out the wrinkles.  
Ian had always scrutinized his appearance; even in his teen years, when his was nothing but a long, sheet of skin, covered in freckles topped off with fiery red hair. 

***

The warm temperature of the water relaxes his over worked muscles. He closes his eyes, releasing the tension in his neck and shoulders letting out a sigh, content to just remain under the continuous stream. The water sluices down Ian’s back, washing away the sweat and soap suds. He wonders briefly if he has time to bring himself off, and the twitch his cock gives is indicative of how very little sex he has been having lately. He decides against it, thankfully, because the amount of steam in the bathroom means he has been in there too long.

Stepping out of the shower, he foregoes drying his hair, in favor of air drying. Quickly wrapping his, hopefully, clean towel around his trim waist, letting his hair air dry. He tries to make it a short affair, going from the bathroom to the bedroom; not wanting to prolong the contact between his feet and the cold tile. Which is, by no means, a big feat. He has a small, minimally furnished-bedroom apartment consisting of: a couch, a dinner table, two chairs, and a queen-sized bed. 

Ian pads into his bedroom, happy to have the plush carpet under his feet. Ian pads the rest of his body dry with the towel wrapped around his waist. He navigates he way around the mixture of both, clean and dirty clothes littered across the floor, until he finds his cream-colored Henley and fitting black jeans; there’s no stains so he counts that as a win.  
After he is buttoned, zipped, and booted, Ian makes his way back to the bathroom, taking in his tired eyes and the little wrinkles forming around his mouth. Sighing, Ian turns his attention to the nest on his head. He’s thirty-four now and has been in the business of sifting through his hair, inspecting every red tendril for a frosted strand. Despite the futility of it all, Ian was still hitting the gym five days a week, and not just to stay fit, but because working out has become a way to spend the access energy his body has in its arsenal. He may not be a go-go boy at the Fairy Tail anymore, but he can still say he looks as good in his clothes, as he does out of them; he works hard enough for it. Hell, he’s the new owner of the fucking thing; he should be able to show up to work free balling it in a pair of sweats without a word from anybody.

Finished up now, he exits the bathroom, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair before heading for the front door. Ian makes sure to grab his keys from the wooden bowl on his way out and locks the door behind him. His apartment was thirty-minute walk to Boys Town—fifteen minutes on the L. Given the stinging cold and keening winds, Ian opts for the L and trudges his way across town, his boots pulverizing the snow with a wet squelch. 

The Fairy Tail, without the heated bodies taking up space, was a little more than a ware house with a fully stocked bar. Walking into the bar, Ian’s wet boots squeak and leave trails of muddied slush; Ian mentally reminds himself keep an eye on wet shoes tonight; he does not want a law suit. Ian set out to do the behind the scenes work, before their doors open for the night. 

***

On the dance floor, every square inch harbored a swaying body, in a room that was previously devoid of them. The body heat combined with the flashing lights to produce a hot spell; bodies were glazed with perspiration, sweat dripping down broad backs. The bass and treble of the music resounded off walls and thrummed through the club goers.  
From his seat at the bar, Ian’s keen eyes scoped the crowd, landing briefly on Boomer, the crowd favorite. He was dancing on the raised circular platform, moving his body with practiced ease; so full of sensuality and rhythm, he was the embodiment of sex. 

Sometimes, Ian misses being up there; misses the feeling of all those eyes on him. The work load sure was lighter. He pulled he eyes away and drains the last of his rum and coke—mostly coke. Ian is fully intent on returning to his office with the hopes to put a dent in his workload, so he can lock up at a decent hour.  
Until a voice stops him in his tracks. The tone is unamused, dangerously sarcastic, and worst of all, achingly familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism, like so many things, is hard to swallow despite being good for self-improvement--please be gentle--but give it to me, please! I would like to do better and continue writing for this fandom. My tumblr's are my user and tellthewolfsimhome (I know wolves is misspelled. Long story short, the one where it was spelled correctly was already taken, and I was still fiending for it.  
> Also, If there is one thing I have learned from writing this, it's that it is really hard to put your thoughts on paper. I must have wrote five drafts for this story; all of them different, most of them failed. So I would like to take a moment to say THANK YOU to all of the fandom writers; seriously, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, you guys amaze me.  
> And to Gallavichthings, you are awesome! Thank you for organizing this and dealing with me and my awkward, rambling emails.  
> fuck-me-for-giving-a-shit I hope this isn't the worst thing you've read. Jesus, I'm dramatic. Happy Holidays everyone!


End file.
